


Scrooge Versus the Mistletoe

by YouKnowTilly



Series: Scrooge [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Cancer, Christmas, Illnesses, M/M, Scrooge - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouKnowTilly/pseuds/YouKnowTilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a while since Severus has seen the boy from the hospital, and even longer since he's seen mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1, The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Harry is eighteen now, and Severus doesn't know he's 'Harry Potter.'

> _I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book,_
> 
> _to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my_
> 
> _readers out of humour with themselves, with each other,_
> 
> _with the season, or with me.  May it haunt their houses_
> 
> _pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it._
> 
> _Their faithful Friend and Servant,_
> 
> _C. D._
> 
> _December, 1843._

 

—From the Preface of Charles Dickens’ _A Christmas Carol_

 

He hadn't changed. He should have changed. Why was he so... _alive-_ looking?

Do not mistake me, I couldn't be any more pleasantly shocked, regardless of my scowling. _Back again, old Scrooge_ , he had said to me just moments ago. Yes, I've returned to this Muggle rubbish dump, it's obvious.

Back again.

The only thing I'd missed was him. Not that I shall admit that to him, mind you. Should one be presented with the very rare chance to start again on new terms with a gorgeous, prospective companion, one does not give up his pride within the first five minutes.

I had better wait six, then, to tell him how much I've wished to see him these long two years.

Two years.

I shift up on my stiff pillows a little and he leaves his place in the doorway to stand next to my bed with a stupid grin on his face. It's as if he were happy to see me. There was someone glad to see the evil Potions master, bringer of detentions and sweat-inducing fear? What was _wrong_ with teenagers these days?

As I sit forward a little, the boy reaches behind me and fluffs my stiff pillows, just as he had used to do the last time.

Last time.

Thinking of it, I notice again how much hasn't changed. The green, stretchy cap is still upon his head, pulled down to just touch the top of his eyebrows. The cap matches his sparkling eyes in color, but the thing makes him look a bit like an exotic fish with a head cold. _It's just my thing_ , the boy had told me in the wariest voice I had ever yet heard from him.

My thing.

At the time I had not pressed any further with the matter, and I am reluctant to do so now after only just meeting him again. Speaking of...

"What brought you back? I'd thought you'd gone for good," says the boy to me as he's finished with the pillows.

He had taken the words right out of my previous self-pity session, and I glare at him a bit for predicting my thoughts.

"You posses two working eyes, see for yourself," was my reply in turn, and I gesture at my bandaged leg.

For some unknown reason, the boy blushes. The look is slightly strange for him, as he usually laughs at such a remark of mine. Not that I promote such idiocy, laughing, mind you. Not outside my own mind, anyhow.

"Got hurt again?" inquires the boy.

I refuse to answer such a pointless question, but he is used to that by now, and he takes a seat in the uncomfortable wood chair my bedside. All of the other rooms had large, fluffy armchairs for visitors. _Scrooge bed, Scrooge chair... a very Scrooge room all together_ , I remember him saying on the second day of our acquaintance. My reaction hadn't been one of smiles and agreeing nods, but he still had come back the next day.

Come back.

"How have you been?" asks the boy somewhat timidly, and I notice how he will not quite meet my eyes.

The reply that I wasn't intending to give was interrupted by the nurse walking through the door and right up to me. She was a stern-looking woman and very irritating on the whole. _You do deserve it, you know, for what you said_ , the boy had told me with a laugh. He doesn't like her either.

"You're well enough to take meals in the public eating area," informed the nurse with an almost-glare that was pathetic compared to my own, but showed that she still held a grudge against me.

As a general rule, I do not apologize to anyone, and I wasn't about to begin doing that now. Meeting her hard stare, I nod and the nurse turns away and leaves.

Not apologize.

"You can't walk on that," complains the boy, gesturing to my bandaged leg.

"Watch me," was my grumpy reply, and I shift as though to swing my legs over the side of the bed.

I had been laying in the same position for nearly four hours before the boy's arrival, and when I moved my feet to touch the cold floor, I hear something in my back crack loudly as a shiver runs down my spine.

The boy has gotten up from the chair and is helping me to stand, and I am loath to break from any of his touches. I allow him assist me without complaint, beside the usual scowl.

The walls outside my room are decorated for the upcoming holidays, and I glare at the offending hanging plant placed in the center of the walkway. The boy is beside me, holding my arm to keep me balanced, and I notice his cheeks redden again as his eyes drift to the mistletoe. I wonder at that, but do not comment with my usual sneer.

The mistletoe.

We reach the patient's public area, and the boy leads me to a comfortable chair in the corner, just where I prefer to sit.

"I'll get you a tray," says the boy, and he walks off without waiting for a response.

There is a moron wondering around the room, taking photographs of people for the upcoming holidays. I sink just a little lower into my seat and attempt to blend into the scenery as I know the man will take my photo without my consent anyhow. I most especially hate photographs with myself in them. I look positively ridiculous.

Hate photographs.

The boy has returned with the distasteful hospital food, and I just barely stop my stomach from rumbling against my will by holding my breath. Instead of making noise, I do something even more irritating. I _thank_ the idiotic, lovely boy.

Lovely boy.

But he laughs at my outburst of thoughtfulness and sits down on the other side of the round table in front of me. He has brought himself some food as well, and we settle in for a light supper with the large hearth fire roaring at the other end of the public area.

The moron from before has just finished photographing a group of patients not too far away, and spots us in the corner. I growl softly, and the boy looks up at me. He sees me glaring over his shoulder and turns just in time to get a flash in the eyes. The boy blinks rapidly as I clench my fist at the side of my tray.

"Would you mind?" asks the infuriatingly gleeful man with the camera. I swear that the moron must be a relative of the Creeveys.

The boy turns back around gives me what I assume to be a placating look, or what might even be pleading. I cannot tell which one, but it is my undoing as he looks so wonderful in this light. I cannot refuse him, so I clench my jaw and nod tightly at the man.

The man grins so big that I am momentarily put off on my food at such cheer. But, that fades away when the boy comes around to the back of my chair and leans on it. His left hand has come down to rest on my shoulder, and I could have shivered from such a light touch. The man in front of me draws my attention again, though, as he is telling the boy to take off his cap.

Light touch.

The boy is hesitant, I can tell by the slight tightening of the fingers on my shoulder, but in the end he relents. I am too taken with his touch to be able to look up at him without giving myself away with my eyes. I do love those fingers of his. They're very nicely shaped, in my opinion.

Those fingers.

With the photo taken, we clear our places and set about returning to my room, the boy helping me as before. On the way, we again pass under the mistletoe, and I feel a very odd urge to stop under it and see what the boy did. I would not do that, of course, that would be childish and desperate, I know.

That did not stop the boy from doing it, however. I was so startled by the abrupt halt under the plant that, for a moment, I thought I'd gone insane and was actually up on ward three, screaming for someone's, anyone's, company.

Still holding my arm, the boy turns toward me with an unfamiliar shy look about him. I do not know for sure what the boy is asking, so I remain silent.

Remain silent.

Those lovely, sparkling green eyes are watching my own and I wonder if I am successful in keeping the longing out of them. Usually, I am not so unsure, but the realization that this wonderful boy is alive is still a bit of a shock to me. Even though I had spent nearly an hour with the boy, I still wonder if he is real, and if I am real.

So unsure.

I recall my own thoughts from my earlier self-pity round: could he think of me that way? Does he?

I am beginning to think that he could, and does, if it is not my imagination that he is moving closer to me.

Moving closer.

Not moving away, I glance down at his rosy cheeks and then at his gentle mouth. There is such beauty that I see there, and I want the chance to touch something pure, for once in my life. We are just close enough that I can feel his warm breath coming from his slightly open mouth, and I chance another glance at those lips. They are more inviting than ever, and I cannot stand to _only_ look at them any longer.

Those lips.

The first brush of gentle skin is of my own doing, and it is barely a touch at all. My chapped lips are rough against his, but he does not pull away. To my surprise, he leans even further into me and does it again. Then, together I'm sure, we lean closer to the other and capture lips between lips.

It is short, but it is wonderful, and I can barely think beyond the person in front of me. Nothing else existed around us, nothing at all. It was me and it was him, foreheads leaning on one another and gazing into opposite eyes.

"Can I stay tonight?" softly asks the one before me, and I revel in the soothing sound of his voice.

There was something special about him, I am certain. No one had ever made me feel as comfortable as he does. But he did look a bit frightened, probably wondering if he would now get sneered at with his offer. I attempt a stern glare, and he seems about ready to run from me, so I bring a hand up to his waist to stall him.

A long moment passes silently. But then...

I nod, and he smiles.

 


	2. Part 2, My Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is sicker, but they grow closer.

I just _had_ to come back. Fate had brought me back. Why did I have to come back to... _this_?

Life has never been very good to me, you must realize. Hopes and dreams are not something that I ponder in the dead of night while consuming three entire bowls of chocolate-marshmallow ice cream (with syrup of course), oh no. The excitement, the... happiness... is reserved for more worthy subjects than myself. So, it should come as no tiny surprise that I, me, _myself_... have gained the interested eye of one special person.

Special person.

_Can I stay tonight_ , he had asked me not long ago. I had agreed, of course, but I am unsure if it was proper thing to do. Yes, yes, I had just kissed... _wow_... that green-eyed person, but what exactly had he meant by "tonight"? This whole day has been so confusing for me. And I thought my life could be no more complicated: teach, brew, spy... kiss?

So confusing.

He and I are just approaching my door, and he hesitates before it. I can see no further harm to be done, dear Merlin, and I usher him in before me. He takes the hint, thank the stars, and I find myself standing at my own bedside, wondering where in my room he will sleep. _You can be a bit slow sometimes, you know_ , he had told me once before. Then I was able to argue, yet now I cannot find a sufficient argument to refute it. Just my luck.

My luck.

I see him glance pointed at my bed, and I wonder how I did not see this coming. Were he anyone else, I would find myself objecting in an instant. But, with him, his lovely green eyes, and his shy smile, I simply cannot stop myself from giving in to what I know is to come.

He tilts his head just so, toward my bed, and I find myself following him without question. I slide onto my bed, wincing as my back cracks again. I feel refreshed when I lay flat over the coverings and I can't stop the tiniest sigh escaping my mouth. My companion climes onto my bed after me and lays just close enough to be touching shoulders.

Close enough.

He turns his head up a bit to see me and he smiles just a little. I feel his right arm come up around my chest and I relax slightly more into my soft bed. Finally turning his whole body, he is resting his head upon my shoulder, and I am obliged to wrap my own arm around his shoulders to keep him snug against me. He is warm, and I grip him just a bit tighter.

"G'night," whispers my companion.

I say nothing, but squeeze him ever so slightly once more.

"Happy Christmas," says my companion, obviously looking for some kind of response from me.

"Yes," was my agreeable reply, and I close my eyes to get some rest.

I feel him worm in closer to me, and I hear his own sigh of contentment. Why he should be content with me, I do not know, but I shall not ask now.

He clings to me, and I the same to him. My thoughts are all a whirl, and I struggle to cease the churning so that I may finally rest for the day.

Back again.

Two years.

Last time.

My thing.

Come back.

Not apologize.

The mistletoe.

Hate photographs.

Lovely boy.

Light touch.

Those fingers.

Remain silent.

So unsure.

Moving closer.

Those lips.

"Sleep," whispers my companion. "You need it," is added on.

And I do finally rest, on this night, Christmas Eve.

* * *

**_-_ **

I fear there must be a leak in the ceiling, for what else could cause my face to be wet in the early hours of the morning?

"Happy Christmas," comes from somewhere near my right ear, and I tilt my head ever so slightly toward that voice.

My face is wet again, and I drowsily bring a hand up to wipe it dry. I hear a faint chuckle beside me and I realize something. I'm not at Hogwarts. Were I there, no one would chuckle within fifty yards of me. They wouldn't dare.

Realize something.

Another bit of wetness lands on my cheek, and I recognize the slight pressure accompanying it is, in fact, lips. Without much thought, I turn my head toward those lips and am rewarded with a light kiss. I've yet to open my eyes, but now I crack one open a tiny bit.

Green eyes stare back at me, and I am temporarily winded by their beauty. They look mischievous, and I realize that I've been, dear Merlin, "kissed awake" by my companion.

"G'morning," says he with a small smile at me.

"Is it?" is my response.

"Of course," says he. "It's Christmas."

I grunt and turn slightly on my side, facing him a little more. He must remember my early-hour grumpiness, for he only smiles again at me. As for myself, I've never known such comfort upon waking with the morning. Were I a man prone to smiling, I certainly would have strained my facial muscles by now, but as it is, I can only settle for looking rather less grumpy.

Upon waking.

"Breakfast in bed?" inquires my companion beside me, and he sits up without a reply.

He is already out the door before I can wake enough to protest, and I settle back with a sigh. He'd never offered breakfast in bed the first time I was here, so I must assume that it has something to do with our new circumstances. Oh, the upside to life. Eventual wearing-away of the bones with an acute case of laziness. And Albus says he's happy... humph.

My companion returns after a few moments, and I am temporarily stunned to see the gloom that has settled over his features in so short a time. I take the tray of food that is offered, but set it down quickly on the bedside table. His gorgeous green eyes are half-lidded, and he looks upon me with a sadness I have never seen him wear before.

Never seen.

He is standing very close, so I sit up upon my bed and reach a hand out for his. He holds my hand with a fierce grip, and I find myself holding him tightly in the next moment. I cannot imagine what has made him so unhappy, so I ask instead.

"You're leaving today," replies my warm companion, and I wonder how he is so let down at this news.

"And how do you know that?" is my return, even though I know the information to be true.

"I overheard the nurse talking about the 'Scrooge Room' and she said you were leaving."

He looks up into my own eyes and I nod once to confirm it, though it takes a bit out of me doing so. He looks so heartbroken that I hold him tighter to my chest to get away from those sad eyes.

Sad eyes.

"Please stay," says my companion with a firm grip around my waist.

"I cannot," is my reply, though I too grip him a bit tighter to me.

There is quiet for a while, my companion holding onto me, while I to him. I do not wish to break such stillness, but my leg is in dire need of a new position, and I nudge my companion gently to let him know.

Dire need.

We are once again laying upon my Scrooge bed, holding each other. I can tell that he is upset with me, but there is nothing that I can do to change that. Albus will be expecting me, I'm sure, and I need to return before the next meeting... or suffer the consequences.

The consequences.

_You need to relax more_ , I remember my companion saying to me the last time. He is right, of course, though I am sure that I scowled at him then. Although, I am hard-pressed to recall a time when I've felt as relaxed as in these few moments.

Few moments.

I am startled from the silence by a small coughing fit from my companion. He worms up to me a little more, and I rub his back very gently. I rest my eyes while I lay with him, and his breathing returns to normal and then to sleep. I let myself drift on the sounds of him being comfortable and content. It calms me enough to let the world go and sleep as well.

His breathing.

It could only have been an of hour before I am awakened by a rough noise at my side. It is loud and rasping, and I am startled to find that it is, in fact, my companion making it. He is sitting up with his back hunched and clutching his chest as he coughs and gasps for air.

He coughs.

I jerk awake at the sight and sit up while reaching out for him. He recognizes my hands clutching at his shoulders and looks up very briefly at me. His gorgeous green eyes are made brighter by tears and pain, and I long to help him.

Help him.

The only thing that my mind could come up with was to again rub his back, and I do not hesitate to do so. One of his hands is now clutching at my shirt, and I pull him as close as I can while he trembles and struggles to cease his body's pain.

He trembles.

His gasping is rough, but he is no longer coughing, and for that I am glad. I try to soothe him by whispering small nothings about "It's all right," and "Don't worry, I am here," but I do not know if they help or hinder.

Soothe him.

His body has finally calmed and he slumps tiredly against me. My arms are around him now and I hold the back of his head to my chest. I cannot remember ever feeling so terrified as now.

So terrified.

My companion is shaking and I turn him ever so slightly to see if there is something that I did not notice before. But, I realize, he is crying on my shoulder. I know not what to comfort him with besides holding him, so I do that.

"Severus," whispers he after a while, and I press a very small kiss to his head.

I do not want to hear what he is sure to say to me, so I do not reply. I would gladly do anything to make him happy, and I am nearly as frightened by that realization as his very apparent illness. _I've got cancer_ , he had told me on the last day that I had been with him those years ago.

Apparent illness.

_Seven_ years spent at Hogwarts with perfect marks in every class from Potions to Herbology, and I am still left without a clue as to the nature of his illness. I feel damned by my ignorance, and I am at a loss for what to do for him.

"Severus," repeats my companion, and I feel my lungs seize a bit at the pain I hear.

He pushes away from me and gazes at me, though I will not meet his eyes. My voice is still working, it seems.

"How long," is my broken whisper at him, and I continue to look past his gaze.

"Not long," says he, and I am frightened by his refusal of a specific time.

He turns my face by my chin, and I am forced to look at those green eyes. It is nearly too much for me, the sadness that I see there, and I shut my own. He doesn't seem to mind, for he kisses me, regardless.

He pushes me gently back on the bed, and I do not resist.

He is filled with purpose, and I am willing to be taught.


	3. Part 3, My Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus tries to work out the mystery that is Harry.

Special person.

So confusing.

My luck.

Close enough.

Realize something.

Upon waking.

Never seen.

Sad eyes.

Dire need.

The consequences.

Few moments.

His breathing.

He coughs.

Help him.

He trembles.

Soothe him.

So terrified.

Apparent illness.

He looks so familiar. I am sure that I recognize him from… somewhere. Why am I wasting precious time on this mystery?

My lover is dying -- he is about a month from death (at best) and I cannot keep myself from agonizing over some unimportant mystery. He is who he is. Just… who in the Wizarding world _is_ he?

My lover.

He's the one who makes me think of smiling. He's the one who annoys me to no end. He is a persistent little prat, he truly is, and yet… he's all mine.

Mystery or no, the time that he has left belongs to me. _I've wanted you for so long_ , he had whispered to me during our most intimate of moments not so long ago. My gorgeous, green-eyed lover is hanging by a thread, and all he thinks of is me! When did I redeem myself so greatly to be this completely wanted by another?

So greatly.

He truly does not know the joy he brings me.

The joy.

The moments under the mistletoe were heaven-sent. I am not one to be very verbal about my (or anyone else's) affairs, but if I had but one person to tell how he affects me, I am sure that I'd be dry-tongued in ten minutes flat.

Affects me.

I refuse to open my eyes to the sunlight brightening the room. I would rather keep him snug against me for the whole day, giving him the rest he needs, the calmness he deserves. We can enjoy the peace for a while yet, I hope.

My lover is the strongest human that I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I refuse to believe that he is unafraid, and neither has he suggested it, yet, he does not obsess over the dimness of his future. Indeed, that future is bleak. Were it my burden to bear, I would not have let time control me, though, strings of potentially-lethal Death Eater missions aren't, by far, a more noble course.

I refuse.

He is fighting a losing battle, not unlike myself. On a different view, however, my lover is truly better off being torn from life before some crazed wizard does the tearing himself. In the current war between Voldemort and the Order, blood versus blood, family versus family, blood _purity_ is sure to win out, for there is no hope for an end to the Dark Lord.

When the fight eventually reaches all humans and creatures, the Magical world and the Muggle world will eventually kill each other out, children and innocents first. The only one who will be left standing at the end is the Dark Lord himself, for I know that he is, and will only ever be, content with himself.

Better off.

There is no magical, mysterious savior of the world for us, there is no hope…. It is best that he does not end up on the wrong side of a torturer's wand. The pain of it would sooner kill me than my lover.

Mysterious savior.

My lover is shifting beside me, curling into my side and dragging his smooth hands up my bare chest. I am grateful for the lock on the door, though I hope it is not as insufficient as my room's other accommodations.

There are only a few more hours that I'm able to spare. Albus is sure to wonder at my extended absence, and I do not think that I will be able to reveal my true intentions of allowing myself to be treated by Muggles. I had recognized the room as soon as I'd seen it and I could not bring myself to return to the Wizard World without being sure of the status of one special person.

Extended absence.

But, knowing it now, there really isn't much keeping me here. I believe that I am now thoroughly ill from being inside this… Scrooge Room. I've gotten all that I came for and vastly more than I had expected. Well, there is one little matter that I did not come prepared for….

Little matter.

"Right then," was my mutter to the darkness, and I bring up my right hand to nudge my lover.

The irritating, gorgeous one beside me is _the_ most difficult person I have ever met, aside from myself. No less than four tries to rouse him were met with incoherent mumbles. I huff to myself at the absurdity of this afternoon's activities and try once again to get my lover's attention.

"Mmm," is my lover's reply as he finally stretches and opens his green eyes. "What fun," whispers he.

I brush my lover's hair out with gentle strokes of my fingers as he smiles drowsily up at me.

"Where have you been while you sleep?" was my unguarded inquiry, and I want to kick myself for allowing such a question to come out of my mouth.

My lover grins a bit as he scoots up a bit on the Scrooge Bed. He is positioned so that he is resting his head upon his left hand, looking down into my eyes. Were he some unimportant man from the streets, I would not be able to lay still for his inspection of my irises, yet I find myself gazing back without the slightest twinge of embarrassment. My freeness with him is more than a little unsettling for me.

Unimportant man.

"I was riding on a flying motorcycle… the clouds were amazing," replies my young lover with a wistful voice of remembrance.

"Oh?" questions I with a slight raise of my eyebrow, my trademark response for just about every occasion, of so I'm told.

"Mm-hm," says he with a nod.

My lover bends his neck ever so slowly downward with a soft smile, and I forget the need for air for a split second. We share one quiet, gentle kiss after another, and I am reminded of the mistletoe once again.

Slowly downward.

His mouth is open for me, as are his arms, and I tug him down on top of me to better hold and touch him. He relaxes so easily onto me that I let the single, unguarded thought through: He is _perfect_ , he _knows_ me… we _fit_.

We fit.

Pausing for a small bit of air, I notice the pleading in my lover's eyes. His brows are drawn together, and I am reminded of a very young child that I once knew so well. The difference of hair aside, they resemble each other very greatly. I am certain that I care more for my lover than I ever came close to with my godson in any way, but they will soon have more in common than childishness… year of death, most prominently.

In common.

"Severus… please don't go. I can't…. This place is horrible, Severus! I can't stand this place without you, _please_ don't leave me here."

I gaze up at him with the fondest expression I can remember ever having on my face.

"I am leaving this afternoon," say I with firmness in my tone and watch his gorgeous face fall so quickly into misery that I rush on a little with the rest. "But, I would sooner apologize to that batty old nurse before I go without you."

My lover seems stunned, though I cannot reason why. Did he really think that I would leave him here, alone and dying? Of course I have never been the most sensitive person to walk the Wizarding World, but even the Death Eater inside of me has a limit. No, regretting leaving him here to rot is _not_ how I shall spend my remaining days of freedom from the dunderheads. I must return, but to return without my lover would mean endless, sleepless nights.

Regretting leaving.

I realize that my lover has been staring at me for some time, and I take the opportunity to stare right back at those green eyes.

"You'd take me?" whispers my lover in a truly awed tone, and I reach up to smooth back his messy mop of black hair.

"I shall," says I, resolute and unyielding.

My lover's gaze is so serious now that I am compelled to reassure him. With a sharp pull, I bring his face inches from mine.

"I will _not_ leave you here to die," promises I, with a small shake of my head to emphasize my own seriousness.

He hesitates not a moment before kissing me with such enthusiasm that one would be unable to notice his illness. My lover kisses with a passion that I cannot see, but _feel_ so greatly that clutch him to me as if he were about to slip away like sand.

A passion.

My lover pulls back and I realize that his eyes are just a bit more sparkling than usual. Those sad eyes are back again and wish so much to take the hurt away.

Pulls back.

"I have to…" My lover swallows thickly and I can see him turning a bit green around the edges.

"Do you want me to-?"

"No!" interrupts my lover quickly, and I frown at his sudden aversion to meeting my gaze. "Just, give me a moment. One moment."

I nod, and he forces a smile out for me. With jerky movements, he gets to his feet and pulls on his pair of shimmering purple slippers. They remind me unwillingly of Albus in their ghastly… _perky_ color. I swear that I have seen the old man wear robes the exact same, shiny purple.

With one last, long look, my lover leaves my Scrooge Room. The atmosphere seems a little less lively without him there, though I remind myself that he will be back momentarily. I am sure that I am getting too greatly attached to him if I cannot stand to see him leave the room. Something is dearly the matter with me.

Long look.

I wonder what exactly was so awe-inspiring, what I said. Does he truly believe that I would run off without a backward glance? I have shown more than enough affection with him than even _I_ am comfortable with. I am not sure I could do much more to show my… love.

My lover.

So greatly.

The joy.

Affects me.

I refuse.

Better off.

Mysterious savior.

Extended absence.

Little matter.

Unimportant man.

Slowly downward.

We fit.

In common.

Regretting leaving.

A passion.

Pulls back.

Long look.

I sit up at that moment. Something is not right.

My lover has not returned, and the Dark Mark burns black.


	4. Part 4, My Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus goes to extreme means to save his love.

He is in danger. I know that there must be something wrong for him to have been gone for so long. Why must these things always happen simultaneously? And so damn _frequently_ \--

I must find him. Just as soon as I sever my arm off, I must search for him. The smallness of my Scrooge room is getting to me, that _and_ the fact that I have lost full feeling from the bottom of my Mark down to my fingertips. Where was a dratted Muggle plastic knife when one was in need of it?

Find him.

The door is open and I hear a commotion from somewhere down the corridor. If I were able to move faster, I might have ran out of the room to look for my lover, though my damaged leg is wrapped so tightly in bandages that I am forced to slide off the edge of my bed slow enough to not end up flat on my face. Damn these Muggles for wrapping me up instead of fixing me like any decent mediwitch would. Irritating, primitive, frustratingly _simple_ \--

These Muggles.

My lover is a Muggle. I mustn't forget that, I _can not_ forget that. If I were to forget who he is, I would have nothing worth the pain and suffering of trying to fight the monster whose Mark is burned into my damned throbbing arm.

Not forget.

I grab my shirt from the Scrooge chair and pull it over my head while leaning against the bed for support. I am sure that the damned batty old nurse should have given me some sort of cane or walking stick; I have seen others using them in this Muggle torture chamber.

With a wobbly kind of walk, I make it to the door in time for the sounds of a disaster happening to reach my ears. That disaster is lying on the floor looking pale and lifeless. That disaster is my lover, my Harry, collapsed on the dirty floor not three rooms down from the Scrooge room.

That disaster.

I cannot seem to move my eyes from the sight of it, and I am unaware of my legs moving for me, fast as they'll go.

Halfway to my lover's body, I stop. My mind has blanked for just a moment, and things are frozen. The cast on my leg does not exist. The burning on my arm is cool. I am no longer a spy for Albus. My lover is no longer ill. I am out of the Muggle hospital. Voldemort is no longer a threat. The sky has no clouds to be seen.

A moment.

And then my mind re-adjusts itself, and I am back to limping like a maniac to get to where I need to be, right beside my dear Harry.

My mind.

The white plaster on my leg keeps me from kneeling at the side of my lover, but that does not keep me from looking down at him. His color is off, and his body is limp, but I can see the numerous doctors and nurses milling about him, working their Muggle magic. There is something to be said about the speediness of Muggles, but I don't feel the need to waste my energies on such compliments, _especially_ for Muggles. My lover is sprawled on the floor, and I feel I must be losing my mind for simply standing there above him, useless.

Muggle magic.

I am being shoved away by some nameless Muggle who is trying his best to lift my lover onto a stretcher for transport. I am unsure which way I should be going; the nurses wish me to leave for his own well-being, to get him needed care, but he is my Harry, I can not simply leave him. I'm confident that he would not leave me, were I the one limp on the dirt-covered floor. I simply can't do it.

My own uselessness is nearly as painful as watching those Muggle contraptions being set up and stuck into my lover. The sight of it chills me deeper than the thought of what the master of the Mark will do to me when I do not turn up for the meeting I am missing. Never has there been _anything_ to rival that constant fear of Him. Not until my Harry came along.

Chills me.

The Muggles are rolling him away. They can sure move quickly. They race by as if the Dark Lord himself is upon them. My own eyes won't even blink for me. There is no real noise around, just the persistent buzzing of Muggle lights overhead.

Around me.

Then, just as if I'd accidentally mentioned the unmentionable Dark Lord's name, a jolt of energy moves me one step forward. And then I am sprinting down the corridors as fast as the cast on my leg can be lifted and dropped repeatedly. I have no choice but to ignore the embarrassment I feel at the glances and stares I'm receiving from the number of patients in Muggle hospital gowns. And they find _me_ ridiculous. At least I am wearing my own garments, the imbeciles. _No_ one gets near the Scrooge room with a paper dress and expects to live for their next meal.

The unmentionable.

I fumble with as much dignity as I can manage when I reach the entrance to the emergency area. The walls are painted red in spots, and that miniscule detail drives me to snarling at everything I see. There isn't a measly smirk or a scowl to be seen from me, because I am not annoyed. I am frightened.

Drives me.

There is more adrenaline in my body now than there was when I forced myself to face the Dark Lord as a newly betraying follower. This frightens me more than even that! I've had a hard time believing that I could ever come close to being defeated by my fear, to being so afraid that I would end it by _any_ means. The duty and meaning I felt in my previous terrified moments, my moments of total betrayal in the face of my former master… the rebellion I had inside me then is not even hinted at this time. There is nothing I can do but be afraid.

Any means.

Everything I've felt with Harry, _everything_ has made me different. I _can_ feel hope. I _can_ be elated. I can _feel_ the passion of another's touch and words.

There is a chance for me to live with meaning, meaning that will be recognized, not ignored as my spying constantly is. The one thing that appreciates me is drifting away into a whiff of smoke. I don't know what to do with myself if I _can not_ have that comfort of him next to me, in front of me, behind me, near me!

"What can I do?" whispers I.

I lean myself against the rough wall and lower myself until I feel a cushion underneath me. I am sitting on a chair that for once in this place does not need to be considered Scrooge-like in any way. My hands are upon my knees until I feel the sudden need to cover my head and hide from the world. The Muggle world isn't all that great to look at anyhow. I slide my arms down until my elbows reach my knees, and my back is bent forward like a bow. My hands run through my hair on either side of my face, and I grip the ends of the greasy locks and pull as hard as I can take while squeezing my head between my arms. It doesn't help, but it makes me keep my grief inside and quiet.

My grief.

I shake myself out of the daze and stand without actually thinking of doing so. I force myself to go up to the Muggle hospital's help desk and ask for my Harry's room.

"Hold on a moment, sir," says the attendant in a most bland tone.

I make no reply and continue to lean against the high desktop. The Muggle woman makes an enquiry over the phone, and for once, I do not bring myself to listen in on a conversation.

The woman hangs up the phone and repeats to me, "Just a moment, sir."

My hand clenches into a fist, but I can't seem to formulate my habitual response of an insult. Frustration makes me glare at whatever my gaze hits. A Muggle child who is waiting with its mother happens to look up at me at that exact moment, and I take only some satisfaction in the tears that I've frightened it into crying with my glare.

The child is quieted by its mother at the same moment as I feel a tap on my right shoulder. I turn my glaring eyes onto a young woman dressed in the formal white of a healer, or in this case, a Muggle doctor.

"Yes?" hisses I.

"Are you the man inquiring about the young, male cancer patient?" questions the woman with practiced gentleness that makes me feel ill to hear directed toward me.

Some of my anger disappears and I allow myself only a stiff nod in reply. The Muggle doctor gestures to the corner, away from the other people in the waiting room, and I go without a fuss. I need information, and I need it quickly; I can not delay with my normal routine of being difficult, so I do not.

"I have to ask what your relationship to Harry is. He is very popular amongst the staff and the more… long-term patients. I can't recall him having any visitors prior to today."

My jaw clenches but I make myself answer with civility, if not outright goodness.

"We are together," states I stiffly, but the woman continues to look expectant for a more precise answer. " _Romantically_ ," adds I with nothing short of a growl.

The Muggle woman glances down at the cast on my leg, most likely concluding that I am a patient in this hellhole, and nods in satisfaction of my answer.

"How much do you know of his condition?" asks the woman.

_I've got cancer_ , he had told me the last time I had stayed here.

"Cancer," hollowly replies I.

"I am afraid that Harry has reached the point where he can no longer leave from his bed rest. The cancer has progressed to a level that can only be improved by a transplant. His current treatment will not be enough to keep the organ functioning, even though we have not detected metastasizing of the cancer. Without a transplant, he will die."

I detest her succinct reply, even though it is useful.

"I must see him," demands I with the same tone that I project during my classes.

"Of course," agrees the woman, and she gestures me down a corridor.

He is still hooked to Muggle contraptions. His brilliant eyes are open and alert and, judging by the small smile he gives me, awaiting my presence. The Muggle woman leaves quietly and closes the door behind her.

My presence.

The goodness that accompanies my being with him comes back in a rush, simply knowing that he is not dead. It reminds me of our second meeting, this time around in my being at this Muggle hospital, when I had believed him to be dead already from his illness. I feel recharged with energy at just a sight of him.

"Hey," rasps out my Harry.

"Hello," comes my level reply, though I can't move my gaze from him.

"How's Scrooge today?" is his cheeky question.

I go along with it as I will do only with him and tell him that I am fine. His green eyes seem so tired, and I walk up to the side of his bed to better look at him.

"Tired," says he with some sorrow shining through his gaze.

"I know," is my reply as I lightly run my fingers over the top of his left hand. "It is alright to sleep. I shall be here when you wake."

He lets through the smallest of grins at my words and turns his hand over to take my own in his. Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, he allows his green eyes to close and he is breathing evenly within minutes. I gaze at him only a short while before I force myself to free my hand from his. He does not stir, and I leave the hospital room without a sound.

The Mark is dully throbbing, no longer burning as before. Determined, I make my way to an unused storage closet.

No longer.

With the door closed, I retrieve my wand from my sleeve.

" _Diffindo_."

My cast is cut open and I remove my poorly treated leg with as much speed as I can manage. Gritting my teeth, I stand as straight as I possibly can without holding onto the wall. With a spin and a destination in mind, I disappear with a _pop_.

The Hogwarts grounds are as magical as ever, I note as I make my way painfully to the gates and then to the main entrance.

Without being seen by anyone, I reach the Hospital Wing in more time than I would like. Poppy is clearing up a mess as I limp in, but she sees me immediately.

"Severus," gasps she with worry in her tone.

"Broken leg. Fix it," I grind out as pain shoots up my leg.

She does this so simply and easily that I want to break my wand in two at the sheer incapability of Muggle healing and those damned _casts_.

My wand.

I do not spare her a thank you because of my frustration, and I summon my robe and mask as I move quickly down to the dungeons. Both items in hand I leave the castle with an agenda firmly in mind.

An agenda.

* * *

_\-- -- --_

Harry is still in slumber when I return to his hospital room, sans cast, though I do not bother with what questions might come up at my miraculous recovery.

I sit in the chair beside his bed, take his hand in mine once more, and wait patiently for the nurse to rush in.

Wait patiently.

She takes a bit longer than expected, but she does eventually turn up.

"We may have a donor for Harry," announces the Muggle woman excitedly.

I tug at Harry's hand to wake him, wishing slightly that I did not have to do so. My Harry awakens slowly and I give the hand I hold a small squeeze to show that I am near. Harry smiles at me sleepily, and I allow my face to be a fraction less stern for him.

The Muggle doctor informs my Harry of the organ he could receive, and at first, I do not think that my lover believes it. He looks to me for answers and I nod in confirmation, to which he can't seem to hide his happiness. I find myself enjoying his surprise and happiness. It is all that I could wish for, his elation.

His surprise.

The Muggle doctor leaves the room to prepare for my lover's coming surgery, and I find myself alone with the smiling machine that is my lover.

"Severus," whispers Harry with a grin large enough to break his face.

I stand from the chair and come closer to my dear Harry. His green eyes gaze at me and I recall the first time that I saw him.

Dear Harry.

_Scrooge bed, Scrooge chair... a very Scrooge room all together_ , I remember him saying on the second day of our acquaintance. My reaction hadn't been one of smiles and agreeing nods, but he still had come back the next day.

I lean down to give Harry a quick kiss. His lips are warm, and he warms the coldness I'd had inside me for a while now.

The coldness.

"Severus," repeats Harry with those brilliantly beautiful eyes of his looking up at me.

I kiss him once more before I sit back down at his side.

Find him.

These Muggles.

Not forget.

That disaster.

A moment.

My mind.

Muggle magic.

Chills me.

Around me.

The unmentionable.

Drives me.

Any means.

My grief.

My presence.

No longer.

My wand.

An agenda.

Wait patiently.

His surprise.

The coldness.

My dear Harry gives a joyous smile while I attempt to hold my guilt at bay.

He will have a good long life, and why it is so, I shall never tell him.

 


End file.
